featherbed | OPEN RP.

There is a district in Tel Aviv populated almost entirely by warehouses and industrial buildings - a strange, modern patch of architecture in a city otherwise rooted firmly in some other decade, some other century. In that district there is a warehouse where a drop is being botched and a fire is being set by an accidental bullet sent into an accidental barrel with some kind of gas that sparks and then burns so hot the metal explodes outward. It sends a storm of shards tearing through the largely aluminum open car door that Charlie is taking cover behind. It punches through metal and skin with a 'ding, thck' noise and he staggers briefly. Scrabbles at the door ledge and the window crank more out of instinct than for any real purpose.

"Aw, shit!" he shouts, ducking his head. There's blood, but when isn't there? He leans up into the window frame of the door. There used to be glass there, but it's been shot out. He fires a few shots of his own and one of the bastards on the other side of the warehouse snaps his head back and goes limp over a pile of cargo.

Shit.

This was supposed to be an easy job. Or at least this part of it. Dodging alarms and armed guards for the payoff is where all the stress tends to come out, but dropping it off? Christ, even the double-crossing bastards used to have more class: maybe a standoff or two, a few guns and a tight exit. Hiring a pack of thugs to do them in is just beneath the bloody belt.

Normally her talents also mean she's the one sat out behind the steering wheel, not crouched low behind a stack of crates at the opposite edge of the warehouse, clutching a bloodied Turkish amulet (not her blood) in one hand and her defender in the other, with the other pair of mates that'd cut her in dead somewhere off behind. Chloe's not sure whether or not she ought to be relieved for it; she doubts anyone else could've held onto the thing and gotten half as far. Of course, she still has the rest of the way to go--

And the warehouse shakes. Creaks from the shockwave of an explosion not too far off. A solid wall of heat seeping through the air in its wake and stinging her nostrils as she steadies herself to scramble closer to where Charlie's waiting. Something she tells herself because she believes it. Because no matter how soft he might get, he'll never stop throwing some of the nastiest punches she's ever seen, and because if they meant to catch the lot of them off guard, the bulk of their efforts would likely be focused on the bulk of her group, not the lone muscle pacing the exit.

She darts off with the sound of gunfire echoing at her heels. Distorted and dispersed via stacked crates and steel beams to the point that Chloe can't quite make out the distance between them. But the bullet-riddled car comes into view around the next bend enough for her to scope out a line of lackeys returning the occasional flash of a fired handgun with interest, and it's enough of a promise that he's still in the fight for her to duck in behind their flank and give him at least a bit of support.

Not that she'll last long if that group stays stuck in between the pair of them.

The familiar 'pop pop' of her Defender from nearby makes his goddamn heart sing. Thank Christ. --Not that it lasts long, a bullet plugging in through the weakened door panel and whizzing near near his head. "Fuck me!" Charlie pops up, lobs another few shots in the direction of the fire. It's a long enough beat to take some measure of the situation: how three of the five fuckers have shifted off, redirecting their sights to what he can only assume is the origin of Chloe's fire.

Enough to tell that if he stays here, they're probably both fucked royally.

"This isn't in my bloody job description," he growls, pulling himself into the driver's seat of the car. He keeps as low as he can, bracing for the pop of gunfire at the windshield (not getting the safety deposit back on the rental, he thinks) as he turns the keys left in the ignition. He throws it in gear, steering by memory rather than taking the chance to sit up and do it by sight. If nothing else, a black sedan careening in their direction might pull the attention of the mooks away from her. Best case scenario, he takes a few out with the front bumper.

Clever move, that. Not that she's surprised in the slightest Charlie's sharp enough to roll right through their cover. The few still fixated on him are the clearer threat-- all it takes is one lucky hit under that sheet aluminum to do an incalculable amount of damage-- so after kicking a bulkier box to her side (cover in case the lot flanking her catches up some time soon) and choking down a stirred-up whiff of sawdust and burning chemicals, Chloe sets herself to clipping them off.

She gets one. Right in the throat, just beneath his jaw at the side. It's a nasty way to go, but gorier details grab any attention that the heavy growl of the sedan might've missed. It's not the best support she's been able to offer in her life, but given the situation they're in, she figures it's better than nothing.

With no driver's side window, there's nothing between him and throwing his arm out: firing a few wild shots. The explosion of gore from the throat of the man on the left and the rate of his fire is enough to make anyone sensible think twice and a few of the guys shear off, ducking away desperately from the spray of bullets.

He cranks the wheel around, throws the car into reverse and swings it around - smashes it into drive with a horrible grind of the gears before slamming before. He's sitting up a bit now, which gives him enough visibility to steer the sedan around near where she's hiding out. He clips one of the lackeys on the way, the sickening thud of shin on bumper, slamming on the brakes the second he's near her.

He can't lean over to open the door, but it doesn't really matter. That window's been blown out as well. "Fancy a lift?"

There's the barest pause for it-- Chloe'd prefer to be behind that wheel, particularly at a time like this-- but the sound of ricocheting bullets is a brief, effective reminder that being fussy will cause more harm than his lead foot and stiff shoulder steering. She tugs the door open, slinking in from a low angle and leaning over across the e-brake to keep from going upright while the door is yanked shut as ungracefully as humanly possible.

"Thought you'd never ask," Chloe huffs, the words are clipped and rushed and the humor's nearly lost, given that she immediately takes the opportunity to tap at his arm muttering 'go go go'.

She doesn't have to tell him twice. With both windows busted in and the windshield wearing more than a few scuffs and cracks, the sooner they get the hell out of dodge the better. Charlie cranks the steering wheel around, ignoring the stab of pain in his side when he does it, and slams the gas pedal to the floor. The sedan peels out, hot burning rubber smell, and the clip of fire that follows them sinks a few more holes in the back window before he can wrench the car around and fly out through the half open warehouse door. The escape takes a side mirror as a casualty, which he tends to think is a forgivable loss as they careen down the cramped street in the industrial district.

They fly over a set of railroad tracks, growling through low underpasses and skittering up the narrowest side streets he can find in quick succession. He steers more by instinct than thought, desperate to put distance between them and those bastards they left behind. His fingers are numb. As he beats around one of the shoddier neighborhoods flanking the industrial park, he thinks he might be gripping the steering wheel too tightly.

"Fuck." Chloe breathes, neck craned about to stare off behind them and make sure they're not being tailed. It hasn't been the best deal they've had, but if she's entirely honest, it's nowhere near the worst. No collapsing ruins, no lava or plane crashes or unliving...things. So when Charlie's taken the 7th frighteningly unsteady turn and there's no flash of headlights that she can make out, Chloe sinks back down into the battered passenger seat and lets relief override the tingling rush of adrenaline coursing through her veins.

"Well that could've gone a bit better."

Charlie breathes out - shit, that stings doesn't it - and lets his foot ease off the gas. It's an oddly jerky motion from the adrenaline, the sedan lagging in fits and starts. "What that? No, surely not." He laughs a little, but quickly sobers because his side aches and because the blokes they'd been working with hadn't been a bad sort, had they?

Just to be safe he steers the car around a few more turns before pulling it over, banging unceremoniously up onto the curb with a grumbled little string of swears. The street is empty, dark save a lone light at the far corner. Charlie peels his fingers from the wheel and, after a bit of fumbling where he can't get his fingers into quite the right shape, pops open the driver's side door . "Alright love, your turn. I can't drive for shit."

"You mean compared to any other night?" Chloe asks as she shifts around enough to pop open her door, displacing glass shards and dirt and all the usual shrapnel that comes from the front lines of a solid skirmish. The car's a mess. Her clothes aren't much better off. Looks like it'll be a two shower sort of night.

And, all right, it's probably not the best time to go telling jokes, but if she's not laughing she'll have little left to do aside from mull over just how much shit they're currently in. Hardly an appealing option for either of them.

"Oi, Webber, any idea where we can lay low for tonight? Unless we'd like them to finish the job, heading back to the hotel isn't exactly an option."

"Ha fucking ha," he grumbles as she clambers out of the car and makes her way around. "Let me think. I know someone." Right? There's someone in Tel Aviv, he's pretty sure. He just has to go through a mental rolodex of names and numbers and it's the adrenaline or something, but he's finding it hard to do that right this second.

--He shifts slightly, realizing abruptly she's waiting for him to get out of the bloody car. Charlie catches the frame of the car and starts to hoist himself up to his feet and then sags slightly. Scrabbles to reaffirm his grip as his head spins. "Fuck," because his shirt pulls against his side and that stings. Once his center of gravity settles, he finds himself still sitting in the front seat, feet in the street. "Sorry, m'head's swimming."

"...You okay, mate?"

She's got a solid grip on the top of the car's frame just over his door; it means stooping down over his stretched-out, scuffed-up heels isn't intrusive or forced, though the look on her face is blatant, unmasked concern. There's blood on him, but then there's always blood. Could be someone else's as easily as his own.

She tries not to dwell on it.

"Seriously not the best time to go have a lie-down."

"Yeah, no worries. I'm alright." Because she's right - this really isn't the best time. They may have lost their tail but sitting out here just a few blocks away isn't going to be safe for long. So he steadies his grip on the frame of the car and hauls himself to his feet, teeth grinding. "I know a guy," he says as the name's come swimming up suddenly. "Not sure if he's got the same number, but I'll give it a go while you drive in that direction."

He feels slow on his feet but thinks he's probably not. Charlie gives Chloe a pat on the bum as he shoulders past her, rounding the dented fender of the car. Where he slows slightly, pressing one hand to his side and steadying himself off the hood of the sedan with the other. When he pulls his hand back, his palm's all dark in the light of the head lamps. He stops, frowns. "Hospital first maybe." But then he sits slowly on the hood of the car instead of moving to the passenger side.

It's dim out there on the edge of the road. Fluorescent street lamps don't offer much in the way of visibility on clear nights, and with an overcast sky, they're lucky to be seeing anything more than a few feet off. But that deep, ruddy stain where paler skin ought to be is unmistakable. Has her stomach sinking down to the point of near nausea. He's sitting on the hood like it's nothing, and that? That's the farthest bloody thing from it.

"C'mon, darling," Charlie outweighs her by leaps, and her easing in to sling his arm round her shoulder is so useless it borders on comical. Doesn't matter. It's a few feet, not a marathon, and he's-- shit, that's a lot of blood.

Charlie tucks his arm round her shoulders automatically because at the root of things, he's a biddable sort of man. He jams the heel of his other hand against the hood (because there's no way she's getting him very far) and rocks back up to his feet. "I don't think it's that bad." Feeling his way around the fender and open passenger door - there's a lot of weight there in how his steps sway, the line of his shoulders. He steadies himself against the door, wavering. "Yeah see, not so terrible." Though he's pretty damn ginger about folding himself into the passenger seat. It isn't until Chloe's heading back to the driver's side that he picks at his shirt: peeling it away from his belly and-- alright yeah that's a bit of blood.

"Can't take you anywhere these days." Chloe mutters offhandedly while switching off between the clutch and gas; left foot minding the clutch pedal , right jamming down across the gas and brake to steer them through sharper turns. Hospital's a thirty five minute drive, Chloe's certain she can make it in half if what's left of their bullet-riddled rental doesn't give out on her.

Heel and toe footwork saves her the trouble of having to downshift-- "Pressure, Charlie."

"Yes dear," he croaks, sawing out a laugh. But he puts pressure on it anyway, sagging into the passenger seat. His shirt's going to be ruined, he thinks, blinking back from the glare as the car peels out into a lit street, lights flashing across the windshield. "This shirt's ruined," is what he says out loud. His fingers are all tacky against the fabric and the breeze whistles through the holes punched through the body of the car.

He's quiet for a long time. Then: "Put the radio on, would you?"

"Never liked it anyway. Can't believe you let yourself get talked into paying for it in the first place."

They're making good time. She's not sure how much, or how long they've been at it-- in fact she doesn't know if they're making decent time at all, but it's what she thinks every time the squeal of burning rubber registers in her ears, or when increasingly busy intersections are somewhat recklessly cut through.

She barely hears him ask for her to switch on a little music. "Yeah, no problem," and it's nothing good, just a local jazz station of all things. He'll have to make do; her hands are a little too preoccupied to go shuffling through whatever else there is.

He makes a low scoffing noise, the heel of his hand pressing in against the wet heat of his side. The jazz station must be inoffensive enough because he doesn't complain or make a move to go trawling through the stations. Instead he lets himself settle: head on the rest and eyes set to some point ahead of them--

And then he coughs sharply, fingers spasming at his side as blood comes up with his spit. Stains his teeth and tastes like shit. "Aw, fuck," he slurs, wiping his chin with the back of his hand. "'Gonna be sick - slow down." The road's all blurring together. He feels light headed, fingers numb and hot all at once.

"Look, just-- I can't, we're nearly there, yeah?" There are signs for it dotting the road now, even pressing the speedometer she can see them plain as anything; brighter than the usual dull green set. Chloe hears him cough, doesn't notice anything more than that as she motions towards the city skyline. "Bloody car's shot anyway, might as well be sick in it."

"No, slow down." He's pretty sure he's muttering it, but it might be louder than that. He finds his fingers catching up against the door - his other hand shifting away from his side to scuff his knuckles against her arm. He does it: harder than he means. "Just ease off the fucking gas would you?" He says, coughing again and then he can't stop coughing. He tries to cover his mouth and the blood comes through under his hand, smearing over his chin.

And this time she does. Eases up enough to pull over on a side street not three blocks away from where the hospital sits, off-white lights in plain view over the flat tops of surrounding businesses. Tearing her focus from it long enough to glance over is a goddamn trial, and one she regrets immediately: he's soaked through with his own spit and blood and his fit doesn't look like it's planning on easing up any time soon.

"--oh Jesus." The flat of her palm is stuck in just over his side. The stain's too large by this point to piece together exactly where his wound is, but she's going with memory and praying she's not wrong. "Come on, keep it together. You've had worse than this before."

He'll even out. It's just three blocks off.

Fucking jazz music on the bloody radio and he can barely hear it because the sound of his own lungs trying to crawl up his throat is too loud-- Charlie scrabbles at her wrist. His fingers are all slippery and his tongue feels thick even after the cut of his coughing starts to subside and then it's just blood in his mouth and under his tongue and on the inside of his lip. He digs his fingernails into her skin. It's soft, he thinks.

Christ, his side's warm.

"Think that shrapnel perforated something," he breathes out through the hand still mostly covering his mouth. The words are all garbled. Flexes and tightens his fingers against her arm. And then: "I can't stand this music." And then he's quiet, head pressing back against the seat and fingers going vice like as he locks up.

Blood's seeping through the cracks of her fingers, running over her knuckles and the stickiness of it doesn't dissipate, doesn't fucking dry.

"Should've told me sooner," Her breath's all hitched up in her throat; it's hard to remember to breathe, hunched over him across the hard plastic of the e-brake-- the seatbelts and day old soda cans-- in a shot-up car parked on the curb of a busy storefront. People are staring. The flicker of lights bounces off a barely functioning rear view mirror.

"Can't change the damn thing when I'm keeping you alive, can I."

Charlie laughs all low and barking and crystal clear despite the blood and the sharp line as the muscle in his cheek jumps. And then it loops low, goes soft along with his fingers across the back of her hand. He knows someone in Tel Aviv who can find them a place to hole up for a few days and it's important to tell her that. He jerks a few times where he's sitting and then he stops.

OPEN RP.

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject